Too Dangerous For a Lady (26 page)

Her mind swooped back to that moment when he'd told her he'd kept it. That he'd felt the same impossible connection that she had through the years. The firelit room, his soft voice, the closeness that made it impossible that they be apart for so long, that she not know where he was at this very moment.

She wished Nicholas Delaney would come so she could start her search for Thayne. Why only wish? She could summon him. She didn't know his address, but surely Beth would.

She quickly wrote the note, not explaining the reason but phrasing it as politely as she could while expressing some urgency. Then she consulted Beth, who dispatched it by a footman, without comment.

That done, Hermione was left with nothing to distract her as she waited. She could offer to help with the arrangements for the party, but the abundance of servants was obvious. She'd only be in the way.

She went to her room and attempted a letter to another Hampshire friend, but her account of arriving at Belcraven House seemed too much like boasting. She pecked at a light lunch by the window of her bedroom, trying to read
Guy Mannering
, but fantastical adventures no longer amused her. It was more interesting to watch Beth's son as he toddled into the garden below, accompanied by a maid. Hermione watched him trot around the paths, exploring every little thing as Polly's boys liked to do.

As hers would one day. Thayne's children. She smiled with delight at the thought. Would they be black haired or brown? What sort of garden would they have to play in? She liked the countryside and it would be reasonable to spend some of the capital on a modest estate, but Thayne might not want rural life. He came from an aristocratic family but had clearly been cast off by them, and his life had been in the army and London.

She didn't care where they lived as long as they were together, but if they had a town house, she'd like a garden.

She sat watching the child, dreaming, until the chiming clock told her an hour had passed. She was turning into a lovesick fool. She'd bring her mind into the moment by reading the newspaper, but when she picked it up, she found the broadsheet beneath it, with promises of poisoning and murder most foul.

The story of the poisoned family was heartbreaking, with ten people dead, including six children, because someone had used rat poison instead of salt in the stew. There was no suspicion of it being anything other than a tragic mistake. The public was warned yet again about the handling of poisons.

The flaming warehouse was reported as a case of arson. An employee was sought to answer questions, and a full description was included. Jack Patchem been caught pilfering and dismissed. He'd left cursing his employer and the next night the place had burned. What if it wasn't him? she wondered. He'd probably be convicted and hanged anyway. The world wasn't always fair.

She read the sad case of a small child killed by a runaway cow that had been fleeing its own slaughter, and about a chicken that was said to be able to count by pecking with its beak.

Friends or family were urgently sought to claim the body of a gentleman found drowned in the river, with evidence
of foul play upon him. He was identified by cards in his pocket as . . .

Edward Granger.

H
ermione looked at the words, blinking to make them change to something else.

The words still said “Edward Granger.” Something about an inquest. Any information . . . Coroner . . . Stirling . . .

Her hands began to shake, but she couldn't put down the paper because her fingers were clenched on it as if the force of her grip could change reality.

Edward Granger. Found in the river, with evidence of foul play.

Did that mean a slit throat? Had Thayne's enemies found him in the end?

Her grip turned limp and the paper slithered away.

She gripped herself instead, as if that might stop the shaking. It couldn't be true. Surely she'd know if he was dead! She'd know in her heart.

She rose to pace the room. Of course it was a mistake. The dead man had one of Thayne's Granger cards, that was all. Yes! That was it. He'd given the man a card. That explained everything.

She must go and correct the error.

Yes, that was the thing to do.

She found her bonnet and tied it on.

Money for a hackney. She grabbed her knitted purse and headed for the door. As she reached for the knob, the door opened and Nolly came in.

“A visitor . . . Are you going out, milady?”

Hermione tried for a calm, commonplace manner. “Yes. An urgent errand.”

“Then you'll need me, milady. Do you want a carriage?” From Nolly's expression, the calm, commonplace manner wasn't working. “You do have a visitor, milady,” Nolly said. “A Mr. Delaney.”

Delaney. Hermione almost laughed. No point to that anymore.

But Thayne
wasn't
dead!

“Take him to Mr. Peake,” she said. “Mr. Peake wished to speak to him. I must go out.
Don't try to stop me, Nolly!
”

The maid backed away. “Of course, not, milady. I'll do just as you say, milady.”

She almost ran away. Shame to frighten her, but Hermione couldn't think of that now. She hurried downstairs, pulling on her gloves.
Coroner. Mr. Stirling. Carriage.

She was aware of servants going this way and that, preparing for a dance party. How could there be a dance party, when . . . ? But Thayne wasn't dead. It was all a mistake. She hurried across the hall to the front door.

“Hermione?”

She glanced to the side. Nicholas Delaney. “My apologies, sir. I must go out.”

“Of course,” he said, and opened the door for her.

“Thank you.” She hurried out but became aware that he was still by her side. “Sir?”

“I'll accompany you. Where do we go?”

“There's no need. . . .” But there was. She didn't know where to go. “I need to speak to a Mr. Stirling. He's the coroner.”

“I know where he lives. If we walk in this direction, we'll come to a hackney stand.”

His calm tone seemed most peculiar. “Don't you wonder why I need to go to the coroner?”

“Of course, but you'll tell me or not as you wish.”

She stopped to look him in the eye. “It's not
true
, you see. I have to tell them that.”

“What's not true?”

“That Ned Granger is dead. I mean Mark Thayne. But it said Ned Granger. Of course.”

“Of course. We should certainly find out the truth. Come along.”

Everything seemed suddenly calmer. Nicholas Delaney would take her to the coroner. She'd establish the truth. All would be well.

“It was in a newssheet,” Hermione explained as she hurried along. “Not a proper newspaper. The rough sort boys sell on the street. I'm sure they print nonsense.”

“Very likely. What did it say about the death?”

“Drowned. Throat slit. No. Foul play. They only knew him by a card in his pocket. Isn't that ridiculous? He could have given a card to anyone!”

“It does seem flimsy evidence. There'll be an inquest, of course, so the truth will come out.”

“Will there? I suppose so. But I must tell them, now.”

“Of course. They could have already seen their error.”

“That's true. The paper was two days old.”

“We'll soon find out. Here we are.” He ushered her into the hackney carriage, gave the driver an address, and then sat beside her.

“Thank you. You're being very kind.”

“I would assist anyone in such distress.” He offered her his handkerchief and she realized she was leaking tears. She dabbed at them and then blew her nose. “It was a shock, you see.”

“Yes.”

“My mother's death was unexpected,” she said, “because after the carriage accident it seemed she was recovering, but when she died, we weren't completely unprepared. My father took some weeks to die and he was an old man.
Thayne's no older than you. But then, Roger was only twenty. Young men die in wars.”

“Yes.”

She was rattling on, but she couldn't help it. “That was war, though. We're at peace now. Why do people try to disturb the peace?”

“That's too deep a question for now. We're arriving.”

“So soon?” she said, suddenly panicked. The truth lay in this ordinary-seeming house before her? A brick house in a terrace of them?

Mr. Delaney eased her out of the carriage. “Come along. You need to know the truth.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

“Lady Arden said knowledge is power. She gave me a list of the Company of Rogues. Your name was at the top, but it shouldn't have been.”

“I'm sure you're right.”

He rapped the brass knocker. A servingman opened the door. Delaney gave him a card. “Mr. Delaney and Lady Hermione Merryhew to see Mr. Stirling if he's available.”

They were ushered in, and placed in a small, chilly reception room. The house had a musty smell, and though it was handsomely furnished, everything was in an old style.

“Stirling's an elderly man,” Delaney said, “but shrewd and honest.”

The servant returned and led them to another room. Hermione's legs began to weaken and she clung to Delaney's arm. She would not faint. There was no need. She was here to sort out a mistake.

It was a study of sorts, the walls lined with books and a brisk fire in the grate, but again a little musty. The man standing to greet them had thin gray hair, but a spare, vigorous body and keen eyes behind spectacles. “Lady
Hermione, Mr. Delaney, how may I serve you?” He spoke with a slight Scottish accent.

She was urged toward a sofa and settled there. Delaney spoke for her. “Lady Hermione is under some distress, sir. Would it be possible for her to have some sweet tea?”

“Yes, of course, of course.” The order was given and then the coroner sat opposite them. “Can you explain your mission here as we wait, sir?”

“Lady Hermione read a report in a paper of a body being identified as a Mr. Edward Granger. As she knows the gentleman, she is affected by it. She doesn't believe it can be true.”

“She has reason to doubt it?”

“Not that she's shared with me thus far, sir. Hermione?”

She jerked out of a daze. “Yes?”

“Can you explain to the coroner why you're sure the body can't be that of Edward Granger?”

The tea came in then, however, and was dispensed.

Delaney put a cup and saucer in her hands and commanded, “Drink.”

She did. It was heavily sugared, which was not to her taste, but it did begin to clear her head. She drank some more, then put the tea down. “It's the card, you see, sir,” she said to the coroner. “He could have given a card to anyone. It's no proof of anything.”

“I agree, Lady Hermione, but there was more than one card.” The eyes were sympathetic, but the tone was firm. “We are scrupulous in these matters. After some days in the water the contents of the pockets were in a sorry state, but there were a number of cards and they all seemed to have the same name on them.”

“Oh.” She turned that in her mind. She knew Thayne couldn't be dead, so there had to be some other explanation. “Was there any other means of identification?”

“I'm sorry, but yes. After the notice was circulated, a
friend came forward to identify the remains. Mr. Granger was interred yesterday under the supervision of this friend.”

Interred?

Buried already?

“The friend's name?” Delaney asked.

“Ah, I do not quite recall. Let me think. Mitchell, I believe. Yes, Mitchell. I do not have his address to hand, but it will be recorded, if you would wish to have it.”

Mitchell? She'd never heard the name. “He lied,” she said.

“Collect yourself, please, Lady Hermione. With what motive?”

Thayne's enemies. But they would have murdered him, not identified him. But he
wasn't
dead.

Stirling had said something.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“No matter, my dear. I fear this young gentleman meant a great deal to you. Naturally you are reluctant to accept that he has gone. I would normally say it was a pity you didn't have the opportunity to see his remains and make peace with the truth, but in the circumstances that would have been no consolation.”

“His throat was slit.”

“Good heavens, no. Whatever gave you that idea? A severe blow to the head. Lady Hermione, please pay attention to this one thing.” His tone was a warning.

“Yes?”

“The inquest concluded that he was the victim of a felonious assault, for there was nothing of value in his pockets, only the waterlogged cards, a handkerchief, and a tangle of white silk which could once have been formed into a rose.”

Suddenly she couldn't breathe. “No.”

He didn't contradict her, for there was no need. There was no hope. The corpse had had the rose. Thayne was dead.

She broke into sobs and was gathered into Nicholas Delaney's arms. In time, after more sweet tea, this time with
brandy in it, she had the strength to stand, to leave, supported by Nicholas Delaney's arm. In the carriage she sat in numb silence until she said, “How do I go on? How does anyone go on?”

“One day at a time. One hour at a time. One minute, even. Do you want to tell me about him?”

She longed to, but she couldn't think yet what Thayne would want people to know about him. She couldn't think at all.

She began to weep again.

“W
e've given her some laudanum,” Beth Arden said, entering the drawing room, where Nicholas waited. “Poor woman. I suspected she was in love, and not quite smoothly, but I didn't expect a tragedy. Who was this Granger?”

“Also known as Thane or Fane,” Nicholas said. “A false name implies a great lack of smoothness in their affairs, doesn't it, but which is true, which false? I asked Peake about Granger and Fane or Thane, but none of the names means anything to him. He didn't believe Hermione had any meaningful encounter on their journey to London.”

“Perhaps it was earlier, on her way to the Wirral with her family. Warrington. She said she'd encountered the man in Warrington. That must have been when she was traveling with her family, though.”

“You're imagining a clandestine affair,” he said, “but he could have been known to her family under one name or the other. They could all have shared a jolly dinner.”

“Whatever the truth, it's a sorry tale. She spoke of him with such brightness in her eyes, but all the time he was dead. I feel I should put on mourning.”

“Instead you have a party to host.”

Beth put a hand to her head. “Lord above. Should I cancel? I can't, not within hours. If I attempted it, half the guests wouldn't receive the news in time.”

“Beth, I'm shocked. Succumbing to hollow convention?
You don't have a corpse in the house, and your connection to the deceased, and even to the bereaved, is tenuous.”

“Might she be upset to hear dance music and laughter nearby?”

“Not if she has a rational heart.”

“Does anyone?”

“No,” he admitted, “but she's suffered the deaths of both parents and two brothers. She must know that neither earth nor heaven weeps for our losses.”

“No matter how much we wish they did.”

“Because we believe we should be the center of the universe, not mere ants, scurrying busily beneath the surface.”

“Don't tell Lucien he's a mere ant.”

“I try, I try. The lessons in humility never stick. Might he recognize the names Granger, Thane, or Fane? As families of importance, I mean.”

“He might. He was trained to this life from the cradle and they all seem to know each other, at least by the repute. ‘Oh, that must be one of the Herefordshire Fanes,'” she said in a fashionable drawl. “‘I believe my second cousin married a Pulteney Fane-Frobisher. . . .'”

He chuckled. “You have the manner pat, but the details wrong. Perhaps the second cousin married the Earl of Westmorland. Fane's that family's name.”

“You remember that sort of thing?” she said with surprise.

“Eventually. I, too, was trained to it from the cradle.”

“It's so easy to forget.”

“I take that as a compliment. I wish Arabella Hurstman was here. She'd be able to rattle off genealogies on the instant—though I'm not sure how much use it would be. There will be hundreds of Grangers, Fanes, and Thanes who once attended a ball.”

“What about Westmorland? If he's a Fane, could he have been Edward Granger?”

He smiled. “The Earl of Westmorland found dead in the
river? It wouldn't go unnoticed. He's the Lord Privy Seal. You see? Knowing about him and that he's a Fane is hardly obscure knowledge. I shall try to sort this out.”

She went with him to the door. “Will you return this evening?”

“Of course. Eleanor's looking forward to it. By the way, I have news of Dr. Grammaticus. I assumed Hermione's summons was impatience over that and was anticipating her admiration and joy. Last heard of, he was in Tunbridge Wells, dosing invalids of all sorts and in particular those with gout. I've sent someone there to find him and bring him here to treat Mr. Peake.”

“Will he, nill he?”

“I've offered him a handsome sum. He seems the type to respond to that.”

“Not hopeful,” she said.

“No. Best not to tell Peake yet. Grammaticus might have moved on, or he might flee at the sign of serious interest. We don't want to raise false hopes.” He kissed her hand. “Be of lighter heart, Beth. Gloom won't bring Hermione's beloved back to life.”

*   *   *

Hermione woke in a room lit only by firelight, with a muddleheaded feeling that told her she'd been dosed with laudanum. She didn't remember taking it. She didn't remember much after the coroner had convinced her that Thayne was dead.

He was dead.

Her heart didn't believe, but her head knew the truth. The silken rose. There could be no doubt. Thayne was dead and buried.

She was in her shift. She'd been undressed, but not to nakedness.

What time was it? It was dark outside.

She pushed up to sit against the pillows, trying to accept the truth. Thayne was dead and buried—as Edward Granger. That wasn't right. Had she told the coroner that Edward Granger was Mark Thayne? She didn't think so. She really should. Or was it a secret she should take to the grave? She remembered thinking that and bursting into tears, but she seemed to be drained of tears now and left only with the leaden ache.

The door opened and Beth looked in. When she saw Hermione was awake, she came over to the bed in a rustle of silk. She was in a dark red evening gown and the firelight shone on rubies around her neck. “How are you? Is there anything you need?” she asked.

Hermione took the question at the ordinary level. “No, thank you. You look lovely. The party.”

“I hope you don't mind it going on.”

“Of course not. What time is it?”

“Nearly seven. The dinner guests will be arriving soon.” Beth took Hermione's hand. “I'm so very sorry that you've lost someone dear to you.”

“Thank you. It doesn't seem quite so terrible now, but that's the opium.”

“Yes.”

“The pain will come back.”

“Yes.”

Hermione dragged out a sensible thought. “Will Mr. Delaney be here tonight?”

“Indeed, I expect him.”

“Please thank him for me. He was very kind. Very understanding.”

“Of course.” Beth went to the mantelpiece and then brought something over. “The coroner sent these and Nicholas thought you should have them.”

Puzzled, Hermione took a white handkerchief that had seen rough wear. When she unfolded it, something fell out. A tangle of stained silk.

“Oh.” She started crying again, but in a softer way, with sadness, but with memories as well. “His handkerchief, too. Both from the river.”

“Are you all right?” Beth asked again. “I wasn't sure you should have them.”

“I'll treasure them. They help. But the talisman didn't protect him in the end, did it?”

“Would you like anything else? There's water by your bed.”

Hermione saw that was true and reached for the carafe. Beth poured the water for her. It tasted strange, but she knew why. “Opium affects the taste of things.”

“Yes. It's a blessing,” Beth agreed, “but it blunts our emotions and plays games with our minds. Try to rest. You'll feel better. . . .” She halted. “No, not better, but clearer, later. Nicholas has some good news. Dr. Grammaticus is said to be in Tunbridge Wells. Nicholas is arranging for him to come here to treat your great-uncle.”

“That is good news.” It was, but Hermione couldn't feel it yet through the cotton wool of her mind. “Has Edgar been told?”

“We decided to wait until we're sure he's more than a charlatan.”

Hermione nodded.

Beth squeezed her hand. “I must go. It's a weak platitude, but time does heal.”

Alone again, Hermione fingered the handkerchief and the rose, grateful to have something of Thayne's, even if they made her cry again. Perhaps crying washed away grief. She doubted that. She conquered tears and focused on the good news about Dr. Grammaticus. That had once been so important, but now it fell flat.

She slid back down into the bed, holding the handkerchief and the rose, and eventually drifted back to sleep.

She woke again and had to get out of bed to use the chamber pot. Once up, she didn't want to return. Her head
was clearing, bringing back the pain, but she preferred piercing truth to fuzzy blankness. She found the handkerchief and the rose in the bed and put them in her trinket box for safety.

Better to think about Grammaticus. He might be here tomorrow, and his cure might be true. Edgar could enjoy life again.

What of her? She supposed she'd return to Selby. Even with ten thousand pounds, where else did she have to go? She could stay with Edgar. Yes, that would be better. Perhaps he'd want to travel again. Foreign shores would distract her. Perhaps in time she'd forget.

She went to the window and found she could see the moon floating in and out of clouds. Below, the garden had been turned magical by colored lamps. She remembered earlier, watching Beth's son playing there and having been so sure she could make a future with Thayne and children of her own.

It had already been too late. Thayne had died days ago. She hadn't known it, which seemed unbelievable, but he'd been dead for days. He must have been killed almost as soon as he arrived in London. Killed by his vile, revolutionary enemies. Perhaps she could help find them. The Frenchwoman and the brute's brother. The idea of a goal strengthened her. She drank the remaining water and then rang the bell.

When Nolly came in, all anxiety, Hermione said, “I'm much better. I'd like something to eat and drink.”

“Oh, that's good, milady. You need your strength. What do you fancy? There's all sorts, what with the party going on.”

“Choose a few items for me, please. And I'll have some port. It's supposed to be strengthening.”

“Very well, milady. I won't be a tick!”

Hermione put on her brown woolen robe—the robe she'd lent Thayne in the King's Head. That memory brought
tears, but she conquered them and lit more candles. In memory of that night, she put more coal on the fire so it burned brightly. No need to ration it here. She sat nearby recalling all their encounters.

The button. Where was it? She saw her pockets draped over a chairback and searched them. She looked at every surface and even in some drawers. What had she done with it? How could it be lost?

She sat back by the fire to weep. How could she have been so careless?

The door opened and she quickly wiped away her tears. Nolly came with a tray and set out delicacies on a table to Hermione's hand, along with a small carafe of port and a glass. “Anything else, milady?”

“No, thank you. Have you been able to see anything of the party?”

“I have, milady! One of the others showed me a spot where we're allowed to watch the guests arrive if we don't have duties then. As my duty's to you, milady, I watched for quite a bit. Such fine gowns. I'd love to have a fine gown one day. And jewels. One lady wore diamonds that were like stars around her neck.”

Hermione was pleased Nolly was enjoying herself, but she worried about these new ambitions. In a fair universe there was no reason Nolly shouldn't wear silk and diamonds, but with the world as it was, the only way for her to get them would be through wicked ways.

“Such fine gentlemen, too,” Nolly said. “Some of them right handsome, milady, like the marquess. But I shouldn't be going on so, milady, not with your loss.”

“I welcome the distraction.” Hermione took a bite of a savory tart. It was more like dust than delicacy, but she forced it down and drank some of the rich port.

“There's something fierce about his lordship,” Nolly said. “Now, that Mr. Delaney, who brought you back today, he's a good-looking man, and kind.”

“Yes, he is. And kindness is important.” She probably should give a lecture on the folly of wickedness and the importance of kindness, but perhaps people should take their pleasures when they could. She'd avoided wickedness in Riverview and see what had come of it.

Nothingness.

She'd been frightened of conceiving a child, but now she'd welcome one, no matter how scandalous that would be. She'd have something of Thayne to remember.

“Oh, here, milady.” Nolly was holding out the brass button. “Fell out of your clothes when we undressed you. Don't know where it came from.”

Hermione grabbed it and held it in both hands. “I do. Thank you.”

After a moment, Nolly said, “Right, then. Is there anything else you need, milady?”

“No. You go and enjoy the performance.”

“It is like a play, isn't it, milady? There's a place where we can watch the dancing.”

Nolly left and Hermione held the button as she nibbled a salmon patty. She needed her strength, but could hardly swallow it. She put that aside and tried a jam tart. It was too sweet, so she simply drank more port. The pain was a part of her and she supposed it always would be, but she was more than the pain now. She had purpose.

A number of purposes.

His body shouldn't be interred under a false name. Even though his parents were dead and he seemed to have no close family, she was sure he'd had friends. There'd been Mitchell, for example. She'd never heard of him, but she knew there were parts of Thayne's life they'd not had time to share, just as she'd not had time to tell him of her pleasant time in Hampshire.

She paused in raising the glass to her lips. Mitchell had identified the body as Ned Granger. If he knew him only as
Ned Granger, mustn't he be in league with the villains? He could even be the murderer!

She rose, wanting to run out and tell someone, but it was nighttime. It could wait, but she had an even stronger purpose now. Through Mitchell, she'd find Thayne's murderer. The one who did it and those who ordered it. All of them.

She drained the glass of port. She would avenge him. How violent that sounded! But she wanted whoever had killed him to be hanged, and yes, though she'd never attended an execution, she might go to watch that.